THE RIPLEY FAMILY, 2019.
Hmmmm.
I went around again, my good mood deflating. Things were a little off. The whole place had that skew-whiff feeling like when someone tidies up your bedroom without your permission and puts everything back wrong.
Mum’s study had been stripped of all its paperwork. Her desk was still there, and so was a laptop, but it wasn’t her laptop – this one was black and didn’t have stickers on it – plus the tower of coffee mugs had disappeared and so had all her potted plants on the windowsill. Instead there was a row of cactuses, and they were okay, but they weren’t right.
In the sitting room, where there had once hung a lovely seascape by Dad, with greys and pinks of an early-morning sunrise, was now …
… a framed print of one of Dad’s pet portraits. It was a pug dog, with a laminated sign underneath:
PERCY THE PUG BY DOUGLAS RIPLEY.
But Dad never hung his pet pictures up inside our house. He did his pet portraits for money and sent them away. At home, we’d had his seascapes. Did we look like a family that liked having pictures of other people’s pugs over our head while we watched telly?
The list of Things Not Right About Our House got longer. The walls had been painted the Wrong Colours. There were Strange Things wherever I looked. In my bedroom, next to a photo of me, someone had framed my school uniform and hung it on the wall. My bed was on the wrong side of the room – and it wasn’t even my bed.
Downstairs in the hallway in the spot where we’d always kept an old crate for our flip-flops was a round table instead. Why was that there? And what was that red hardback book on top of the table? That was new too.
I went to take a look.
On the front of the book were these words, embossed in gold:
VISITORS’ COMMENTS.
Underneath that was the most mystifying sentence of all:
Please rate your experience of Sea View today, so we can make your next visit here even better!
I stared at that for a while, but for all the sense it made, it might as well have been written in hieroglyphics.
My eyes kept going back to the same five words.
Visitors? Your experience? Next visit?
THE SOUND OF violins snapped me out of my reverie.
Someone had left the front door open. I stared at it, the mysterious book temporarily forgotten. Tinkly laughter floated through the air. There was rapid chatter.
‘You mumble so proud of what’s been mumble,’ somebody said.
There were people outside. And for the first time in ages, they weren’t using chainsaws, hammers or drills. They were clinking glasses. I could feel the air of celebration even from the hallway. The last time I’d been in the garden, it had been an almost impenetrable mass of brambles. Now there was bright green lawn, glowing in the sunshine.
There was the sound of laughter. Something was very definitely Happening Outside. But what?
Only one way to find out.
I walked through the porch and stepped outside the front door.
The air felt quite lovely on my corpse. I squinted in the light. For a few moments, all I could see were dazzling diamonds of bright whiteness. And then my vision adjusted.
The old cherry tree near where we used to park our van was in blossom. It must be spring, I thought dazedly, as three waiters in red jackets walked past me, carrying trays of crystal glasses. Spring is still a thing.
I followed the waiters to the back garden, to the source of the noise.
It was a party.
Someone had strung up bunting and brightly coloured lanterns. People I vaguely recognised as the restoration crew were there. They’d all got dressed up for the occasion, although their clothes were odd: silky dressing gowns, long nighties. It was as if they were all off to a grown-up sleepover. One or two had eye masks perched on the top of their head like sunglasses, and here and there jewelled slippers in bright colours shone like slices of tropical fruit.
Still, at least they looked smart.
I looked down at myself, horribly aware of my rotting Christmas jumper and bruised body. For once I was grateful for my invisibility.
All the bramble had been hacked away, revealing the sea again. I gave it my best dirty look. Then my attention was caught by something. In the spot where Dad’s painting shed used to be was now a one-storey building. But it looked nothing like his shed. It didn’t slope dangerously like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, for one thing, and it wasn’t made of old planks. This was a proper modern building, with right angles and windows and a sign:
DOUG’S STUDIO CAFÉ: WHERE EVERY MEAL IS A MASTERPIECE!
Over the ‘é’ in ‘café’ someone had painted a teeny-tiny paintbrush, as if that made up for anything, as if that made up for pulling down his shed.
As well as the café, there were patio tables and shrubs and deckchairs, and manicured flower beds so tidy they looked fake.
In the oak tree was a brand-new tree house. That made me feel wistful. Building a tree house for Birdie and me had been fairly near the top of Dad’s Things I’ll Do One Day list. And now it was too late.
An hour or so later, when the sun had risen higher in the sky and several bottles of that golden bubbly liquid had been drunk, a slender woman in red pyjamas, hair glinting in the light like silver thread, strode through the crowd. People clapped as she moved past. She gazed out with a proud smile. On her lapel was a badge:
When the applause died down, she began to speak.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s been eleven-udder to care for this historically significant family home.’
There was another smattering of applause. I felt
