“What a wonderful view!” they gush.
They always gush. And then they wonder. “Why are you selling?”
When they say that, I hear a demonic cackle from the bay window, which, despite being newly-glazed, leaks, as does the new door. They can’t hear it, and they can’t hear the walls and floors and roof taunting me about which one of them is going to be next to pass water.
It has been a controlling relationship. This house was so romantic, when I first saw it. Of course, as soon as my impulsive commitment was made and I was through the door with a massive mortgage on my back…things changed! And how.
Water, water, everywhere. First, the shoddily-built outhouse that claimed to be a conservatory. Replacing that with a proper extension was the first instance of good money following bad, and the builders never did quite finish it. Then came the mysterious case of the dripping lounge ceiling. A succession of so-called tradesmen took loadsa-money to repair the wrong thing. Then the upstairs shower, the downstair toilet, the piping in the utility room, the dishwasher, the garage roof, the boiler, an upstairs window – all with collateral damage. The insurance company inspector became a regular visitor – and he never doubted the authenticity of the claims. Occasionally, there were lulls in the campaign of terror. I might go a full three months without an urgent call to the local handyman. And there was always the enchanting view of the gentle river, which never breached its lush banks.
One day, during one of these lulls, I was digging in the garden and the tines of the fork twanged off a stone and jolted my wrists. I knelt down to brush the soil away, expecting a bit of paving slab that would need to be dragged out. It wasn’t as smooth as a paving slab, and, to my amazement, I saw letters carved into it. I did my duty. I took off my gardening gloves, fumbled for my phone and sent a photo to the council website.
Then came the proverbial straw that broke my camel’s back. I’d had a new wetroom installed. And on that beautiful evening at the start of a long Bank Holiday Weekend, I went from the garden into it to wash my hands and behold… Water was spurting from the wall. I melted into paroxysms of panic. What could I do? I could turn the water off. The neighbours would let me use their outside tap. Would the insurance company help? Oh no! Not this time. Phone the builder, they said. As if they would answer on a bank holiday. Well, how about throwing your hard-earned pension at modern-day pirates, also known as emergency repair companies? Three new valves later – well I just don’t dare to use that room.
Several weeks after my wetroom meltdown, a very serious young woman from the heritage department arrived to investigate the stone that I had completely forgotten, since I had decided to sell this house that hated and abused me. I watched in awe of her craft as she tenderly stroked the stone with a small, soft brush, occasionally uttering “oh wow!” After some time, she had completely exposed the inscription, and she looked up at me, gabbling with glee, “this…is…RARE!”
“Oh, really?” I was interested, sort of.
“This area used to be where two rivers met – very sacred to the Celts, you know – and we’ve found brooches, arrowheads and animal bones, before – all offerings of some sort – but this…” She stroked the stone and then continued, “this is a curse tablet.”
I felt blood pounding in my head and started to sweat.
“A what?” I dared to ask.
“Bruceti – that’s a Romano-British name – is asking the river god Niskus to punish someone who stole money from him.”
“Are you going to take it away?” I did so hope she was going to say yes, and almost did a jig of happiness when she assured me that a team would arrive soon to recover this special artefact which would spend the rest of its days on display at the County Museum. After they left, I buried a ring where the stone had been. I prayed to Niskus to take it as an offering and be nice to the new owners of the house.
Superstitious twaddle? I can hear you’re your unspoken scorn, dear reader. You try living with persistent bad luck of a particular kind for years and you too would believe anything, just like Bruceti and me.
Oh, the prospective buyers are still waiting for an answer.
“Sorry – I’m very hard of hearing. Please could you repeat that?” I buy myself time to think.
“Why-are-you-selling?!” The potential buyers make exaggerated mouth movements.
“I’m getting too old to manage a big house and garden.”
They nod sympathetically. Watching them, from the corner of my loudly-wallpapered lounge, is Niskus. His shakes his long hair and beard of river weed and his big green eyes weigh them up. He smiles. I think he likes them! Now, I must make an effort to sell this place.
“Would you like to see the view from the balcony?”
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Featured on BBC Upload, Thursday 15th May 2025
