Home: The Story of Everyone Who Ever Lived in Our House

‘But can I see that?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How?’

‘You just have to order it.’ She hands me a form. ‘Costs a fiver. Takes an hour.’

I fill out the form and she checks it for me. Take it to the man, pay, walk out into fresh air and blue skies. I’ve no idea where I’m going, I just know I have to get out of there.

Outside, it’s a normal day. It’s reassuring to see living people – men and women in shirts and jackets, black skirts and high heels, walking furiously up and down High Holborn in the afternoon sunshine. I take deep breaths of city air and, after twenty minutes, go back in, through bag X-ray again.

The girl comes over.

‘Are you Julie Myerson? Did you pay?’

‘Yes.’ I show her my form.

She tuts. ‘But you’re supposed to give that to me!’

I apologize profusely and she tells me the hour starts now. The man with identity tag and fluffed-out hair comes over to me, grinning. I smell his armpits as he moves closer.

‘If you don’t mind my saying,’ he offers, ‘the light’s very bad in here.’

They shout your name when the will you’ve ordered is ready.

As the girl shouts ‘Meerson!’ pain zigzags across my upper back. I’ve pulled a muscle. I knew it. Too many volumes. Clutching my spasming shoulder, I go over to the desk and collect my will. Scanning it quickly, I see names and addresses – an executor, a witness, a solicitor. Fantastic!

I take it to a table where I can sit and read it properly. The will names Laurie Steam’s two daughters and three grandchildren. The daughters are Audrey Joan Clayton and Margaret Phyllis Askew, the grandchildren Robert Askew, Michael Askew, and Diane Askew.

I sit there and try to decide what’s funny about that Margaret Phyllis name. Margaret Phyllis Askew … suddenly I know where I’ve read it before. I’ve been staring at it on a chart on my wall – it’s on the list, the list of names from Kelly’s. Margaret Phyllis Askew lived in the house! She lived at 34 Lillieshall Road sometime in the forties, with her husband Peter.

I realize I’ve just uncovered a fact I could never have guessed at – that the Spawtons and the Askews were related, by marriage anyway. Which means that if I can find a living descendant of one, then I probably have the other.

Back home, with a bag of frozen peas clutched to my shoulder, I show Laurie Stearn’s will to Jonathan, who expresses mild-to-moderate excitement at my Spawton-Askew discovery. He immediately starts looking up Askews on his Info Disk.

‘There!’ He prints off a list of Diane Askews. The one at the top gives an address in Brighton and there’s also a phone number. ‘Got to go out to an Environment Scrutiny Sub-Committee,’ he says, glancing at his watch and finishing his cold tea. ‘If I were you, I’d ring that number now.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, now, what’s stopping you?’

‘But it’s seven o’clock on a Thursday evening.’

‘Best time to get people. Why do you think all those irritating sales people always ring at this time?’

He gives me a bossy look as he leaves the room.

I sit at the desk and stare out at the hot blue evening sky and bite the ends of my fingers.

If I ring Diane and it’s really her, a real Askew relative, then what on earth do I say? I try scribbling a script for myself but it only makes me more apprehensive. I suppose the worst she can do is put the phone down on me. Which would be awful.

I fetch a large glass of wine and gaze at the will. I have to find Laurie Steam’s living relatives, that’s certain. And call them. There’s no way round it: if I can’t do that, then I might as well give up on this whole idea.

Downstairs the children are shouting in the garden and the dog is barking. I shut the window and, coming back to the desk, I see something that even Jonathan hasn’t noticed. The will was witnessed back then by two people in Cambridge – E. G. Harrison, housewife and H. P. Harrison, clerical assistant. And in 1971 they were living at 36 Godwin Close, Cambridge. Could they possibly still be there?

I phone directory enquiries and give that name and address. I hold my breath and wait to be rebuffed. ‘Here’s your number,’ goes the voice.

Feet thundering up the stairs. Chloë bursts in without knocking. Her long blonde hair is plastered to her face with sweat and little bits of grass are also stuck in it. Her eyes are dark with fury.

‘Can you please tell those boys to stop kicking their football in my garden?’

I put down the receiver and explain that I’ve got difficult phone calls to make and must have peace – ‘And anyway, are they really doing anything bad?’

She glares at me. ‘Well! They’ve knocked a branch of blackcurrants off my bush and now they’re starting on the rocket. So what do you think, is that bad enough for you?’ Her eyes widen. ‘And they’re using a real football by the way, not the foam one you told them to use – just thought you might like to know that.’

I sigh. ‘They shouldn’t be using a hard ball.’

‘You tell them that!’

‘Can you tell them? Say I said so. Are they doing the stuff to your garden on purpose?’

She gives me a sulphuric look. ‘What do you think?’

‘Guess what,’ I say. ‘I think I’ve just found a phone number for someone who may know someone who once lived in this house! It’s my first real breakthrough to one of the long-ago people.’

She folds her arms sarcastically. ‘Well, how fantastically exciting.’

‘It is actually – it’s really exciting. But I need some peace to ring these people now.’

‘Great.’ Chloë regards me for a second. ‘Thanks for caring about your only daughter’s garden! I’ll probably have a nervous breakdown when I’m older but at least you’ll have got your fucking book written!’

She kicks the door once, before slamming it shut. She’s not allowed to say that word. I should call her back. I shut my eyes and wait. She stomps downstairs as loudly as possible. I wait to check she’s really gone and soon all I can hear are the boys’ shouty-laughs and the small sigh as the house settles.

Before I can think of another reason not to, I dial the number.

‘Yes?’ It’s a female voice, oldish.

‘Mrs Harrison?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m so sorry to bother you, you don’t know me. I’m a writer and I’m researching a book about a house in London – my house – and I found your name on a will, as a witness, and wondered if you used to know someone called Laurie Stearn?’

‘Stearn?’ The woman sounds nonplussed and a little bit wary.

‘Yes, I know this sounds odd but it was her will and I’m trying to trace her granddaughter, Diane Askew.’

‘I don’t know anything about any wills,’ says the woman even more warily, ‘and I don’t know any Stearns, no, I’m not sure I can help you.’