A House in the Sunflowers Read Online Free

hundred yards along the winding, narrow road he suddenly disappeared from view as he turned to the right up a rough track and we turned, bumping and swaying behind him. The track swung left, climbing and narrowing through dry, head-high maize. At the far end of this tunnel we could just glimpse two ruined walls and a great heap of stones. Our hearts sank. Was that it? The farmer, no doubt realising what we were thinking, turned and, pointing at the ruin, shook his head, the bike lurching wildly. Another turn, this time to the right, past a dried-up pond and a largebarn and as he stopped, we saw our house for the first time.
    The engines switched off, the sudden stillness was overwhelming as we climbed down into the dry, bleached grass. As our ears adjusted we became aware of the papery rustling of the maize and the shrilling of crickets in the dry, sweet air. It was very hot although the sun was obscured by thin cloud and as we walked toward the house we all spoke quietly as though someone were asleep.
    It was a long, low building and, from what seemed to be the front, which I now know is the back, it appeared featureless. The end section on the right seemed to be an afterthought, having been roofed in different tiles from the ancient Roman ones which slithered down the remainder of the roof.
    ‘That part is not so old,’ said M. Bertrand. ‘Not quite a hundred years I think.’
    ‘And the rest?’ I enquired.
    He shrugged. ‘Two hundred, three hundred, perhaps more. Who knows?’ He led us round the side of the house where a long-neglected vine had interwoven with a japonica bush. It had climbed higher than the roof and then twisted over to form a long, shady, ragged tunnel full of spiders’ webs.
    The real front of the house now came into view. The nearest corner was almost hidden by what had probably once been a neat box hedge but was nowa tall, straggling screen of trees. Beyond this the roof sloped steeply down to form a wide porch. Behind two low iron gates of uneven width we could see a stone well, an ancient front door and a collection of cobwebbed clutter; lengths of string and wire posts and broomhandles and cracked clay pots. M. Bertrand shooed away the cows which grazed right up to the porch and taking out a huge key on a tattered shred of dark red cloth, he unlocked the door.

    Stepping into that cool, dark interior was the strangest experience for the furniture was still there, layered with dust and cobwebs as if in a fairy tale; yet even after all those years of neglect I still felt the strong sense of its having been loved and cared for. M. Bertrand pushed the shutters open and the fierce light flooded in through the grimy glass showing more clearly thelong table, rickety chairs, and a sideboard, dark and massive with an old lady’s straw hat lying on the top. I picked it up and slowly put it on and I knew then that this was the house I wanted. Something about continuity; impossible to explain.
    In this main room, to the side of the one small, deep-set window were two tiny wood-burning stoves. Their sooty chimney pipes crossed the greasy wall to join the main chimney breast of the wide, open fireplace , the hearth a simple iron plate on the floor. An opening to the left led to the newer part of the house which consisted of two quite large rooms opening off this main room. M. Bertrand opened one door then another.
    ‘
Attention!
’ he shouted as we began to follow him. We soon saw why. Unlike the first room which had a cement floor, these were wooden but, alas, now almost entirely eaten away. As he swung the shutter open I shrieked as an outraged bat flew from its home between the joists, skimming my face as it hurtled out of doors.
    Mike, always more practical than I, was looking very doubtful. ‘It’ll all have to be completely re-done,’ he muttered as we went back into the main room and looked up at the ceiling, where there were several large holes giving glimpses of the sky. Green trails of