Half Broken Things by Morag Joss

get over their appearance at the door, like giant tadpoles in some sort of brightly coloured race. And they had maps, of course, and showed me the special cycle route they were doing on which certain ‘points of interest’ had been marked, including Walden Manor. They had left the marked route and come all the way down the drive, even though there is a sign saying ‘Private’ at the top, next to the road. This is Walden Manor, yes? they asked me. I couldn’t very well dispute it. So I said yes, and then I stood at the door waiting for them to go.
    â€˜We know that the house is not open to the visitors,’ the man said. He smiled even more than the girl, which is unusual. At least the girl had the grace to look embarrassed.
    â€˜We are so sorry to bother you, we are the students of architecture,’ she explained. The man hadn’t stopped nodding and smiling. Lovely teeth, but I distrusted such a conscious effort to charm.
    â€˜It is so beautiful!’ he said, ‘we have nothing like this in Holland. So—we don’t know, but if you might very kindly let us take a look round . . .’
    â€˜â€”little look, only on the outside, perhaps,’ the girl said. ‘If you can bother with us so near your house.’
    Rash of me. They could have been anybody, burglars, rapists. Quite apart from it being the last thing a house sitter should do, give strangers the run of a place. They could have had coshes, knives, rope, handcuffs, anything, in those saddlebags. Supposing they’d even left me alive, I would never have recognised them again, not out of those ridiculous clingy suits and helmets. So why did I let them in? It was the ‘your house’ that did it, I suppose. I suddenly felt so proud, and I swear that all of a sudden the thought came to me, if it’s my house I can do what I like. So I heard myself saying I’d be pleased to show them round my house. They didn’t stay long. I went a bit vague about dates after ‘fifteenth century origins’ (I just made that up, it sounded about right), which gave them the chance to show off and argue between themselves over when different bits might have been built. He said they were intrigued by the building materials and methods more than the design because, evidently, he said, the house was ‘provincial’ and not by a distinguished or even a known architect. I said there was more to good design than fancy London names, and they were a bit taken aback, I think, and I was too, because I hadn’t realised I thought that. They asked how long my family had lived here, and I simply told them, oh always. And would the house stay in the family? It was the man, of course, who asked that, and his girlfriend gave him a look that said of course it will and that was an impertinent question. So I said of course it will in a voice that justified her look (and as I spoke I did feel mildly though genuinely offended). I inherited the house from my parents, I told them, another thing I hadn’t realised I thought. My mother died eighteen years ago, when she was in her eighties. I nursed her for many years, I said, and now the house is mine and my son will have it after me. I have just one son, I told them, smiling. If they wondered about where my husband might be they didn’t say. Though the girl would have sneaked a look at my ringless hands and concluded I was divorced, I suppose. Women notice things like that.
    When they left I saw them off at the front door and closed it after them, and I had the sense that we both, me and the house, breathed a sigh, glad to be alone together again. I thought I would just walk through the rooms once more, and it was as I was turning to go upstairs that I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror, which by then I was describing to myself as a looking-glass. I had been smiling at those two young people. I thought perhaps I had smiled because of their youth and friendliness,